


your song

by rire



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Akashi playing violin, Angst, Gen, because season 3 ED
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-12
Updated: 2015-01-12
Packaged: 2018-03-07 06:25:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3164636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rire/pseuds/rire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He hasn’t played it since she passed away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	your song

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this post on tumblr (http://somnia.tumblr.com/post/107724445855/akashi-seijuurou-kuroko-no-basuke-season-3-ed-1) - basically, the idea that in the season 3 ED, Akashi is playing violin for his mom. I love angst and hate myself, so I just rolled with it.

He learns it at the age of six because his father tells him to. He ends up enjoying it because of his mother.

Akashi can feel the cool wood propped against his shoulder, tucked under his chin. It’s quite an unfamiliar sensation, as he’d only started playing a few weeks ago, but under the strict gaze of his father and his instructor, he doesn’t dwell on it. Instead, he looks straight ahead at the sheet music and plays.

The song is beautiful, but he hasn’t grasped it quite yet. He doesn’t have to look up to see his father’s eyes narrow with disapproval every time he makes a mistake. It dampens his pride, and by the time he is done he is slightly disappointed in himself. He wants to play more, to master the beautiful melody, to have it flow from the instrument the way he hears it in his head.

But when he looks up, his mother is smiling. Her eyes crinkle at the edges, and her face is beaming with pride.

“That was beautiful, Seijuro,” she says, her voice smooth as honey. He smiles as she holds out her arms and pulls him into a hug, closing his eyes and revelling in her warmth. “And you’ve only just started, too. I can’t wait to see how much you’ll improve.”

For the moment, his mother serves as a wall, blocking out his father’s disapproving gaze.

The song becomes her favourite, and she hums it to him at night sometimes when he can’t sleep. He grows to associate it with the feeling of being cradled in her arms, the soft vibrations of her voice and the slow rocking rhythms lulling him to sleep. The song becomes his favourite, too, and he masters it quickly, playing it nearly every day, her smile each time bringing a small source of joy in his life.

He hasn’t played it since she passed away.

\---

Akashi stumbles upon the book of sheet music again when he’s sixteen, in the process of organizing the books on his shelf. He pulls it out, flips through it—the spine is worn, and the pages are slightly yellowed and frayed. He lands almost immediately on the dog-eared page, and he doesn’t have to read the title to know what song it is.

He eyes the calendar on his wall, though he doesn’t have to. He knows what day it is, and knows that now is as appropriate a time as any to play it again.

He opens his violin case, props the music book on the stand, and positions the instrument methodically. The coolness of the wood stings him momentarily. Over the years, as the presence of his mother has faded from his life, he has come to associate the instrument with his father’s stone-cold gaze. He still plays consistently and improves consistently—he hasn’t seen his instructor in years, because her services were no longer necessary. His father has never clapped for him once.

 Standing in front of the fireplace, he casts a quick glance at the photos lined up. A happy family that once was.

He starts to play, and is surprised to discover that he has not forgotten the song. With every pull of the bow across the strings, with every note that echoes through the room, he starts to remember. A time before his life was dictated by the doctrines of victory. A time when his life still had room for the finer things like music. A time when he could still allow such simple things as her smile to bring him joy.

When he finishes, he opens his eyes and looks at the photo.

“Happy birthday, Mother.”

As he puts away the violin, he hears footsteps, and turns to see his father, half-hidden behind the door frame. He wears a frown of disapproval, but his eyes are a little soft around the edges. For a moment, their gazes meet. Then he walks away down the hall without a word, and doesn’t look back.


End file.
